


Water That Destroys

by ApplyWaterToThatSlowBurn



Category: James Bond (Classic movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types, James Bond - Ian Fleming, The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - James Bond Fusion, Alternate Universe - The 100 (TV) Fusion, Bond Girl Lexa, Bond. Clarke Bond., F/F, Gender Flipped James Bond, I have no shame, M is Indra, Mexican History, Oaxaca, Other, Raven Leiter is Felix, Ridiculous Gadgets, The 100 (TV) Season 1, The 100 (TV) Season 2, The 100 (TV) Season 3, The 100 Femslash, The James Bond/ 100 AU you never asked for but always wanted, non-binary characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 10:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25967821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApplyWaterToThatSlowBurn/pseuds/ApplyWaterToThatSlowBurn
Summary: There is a municipality in Oaxaca Mexico named for the Nahuatl meaning “water that destroys”, but when you care for nothing, what could truly be destroyed? Bond is about to find out. Bond? In a The 100 fanfic? Oh sorry, that's Clarke Bond.00 Agent Clarke Bond is sent to figure out who eliminated an off-duty agent on holiday in Oaxaca, Mexico. There she meets Dr. Lexa Woods, a university professor and the last known contact of the murdered agent. What happens next? Bond shit. Gadgets. Explosions. Sex. Luxury vehicles (being destroyed). Improbable escapes. Monologues from villains who would be better off just killing Clarke Bond but don't and then get fucked up. Settings in beautiful Oaxaca, Mexico!As always, excuse the wine-fueled typos.Seeing if there's interest in this? I'm a huge fan of two things 1) James Bond, both Fleming's novels and the films and the gorgeous city and state of Oaxaca, Mexico. Bond is my problematic fave AND UNDERSTAND THAT IT IS A TOXIC MASCULINITY INSIDE A COLONIAL NIGHTMARE WRAPPER. This is Clarke Bond...BECAUSE THIS IS A MOTHERFUCKIN' JAMES BOND THE 100 AU FEVER DREAM, BABY!!!Shoutout to anyone who points out the Bond easter eggs (books and films) in the comments :)
Relationships: Clarke Griffin & Lexa, Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Water That Destroys

Bond stepped out of the plan onto a hot, wet tarmac. The light canvas jacket she wore over a crisp, white button down was already too many layers, and she removed it and slung it over shoulder, setting down her small bag to roll up her sleeves to her elbows. Bond traveled light; after all, most of what she needed couldn't fly commercial. While her bag carried nothing but an extra pair of clothing, toiletries, a passport that said her name was "Mary Goodnight", and a business card that said she was an art dealer from London, she knew what she really needed would be made available to her. Q would see to it.

She rolled her eyes when M insisted she take a commercial flight from Heathrow to the literal hellmouth known as LaGuardia to begin her journey South. Part of her cover, the old battleax insisted. Bond swore she saw a raccoon run past the LaGuardia Panda Express. "Trash Panda Express", she muttered to herself and wished desperately for a cigarette that she could not access without leaving airport security. The tin in her bag held a small number of specially blended Turkish and Balkan tobacco, and using exquisite control, Bond limited herself to exactly thirty cigarettes a month. She could blow it all in a week or she could savor them, one a day, but once the 30 were done that was it. They were terrible for the cardio Bond required in the field, but damn it, they were one of her better, and more controllable vices.

Once she made it through customs and out to where the drivers awaited their customers. She pulled the tin from the front pocket of her bag and lit her cigarette, inhaling as she scanned the men holding up their signs, looking expectantly. While she scanned the area, her cigarette dangling from her mouth, she quickly swept blonde hair up in a ponytail. She could feel it beginning to curl. The rain had stopped, but it hung in the air far above the airport, threatening a sudden and furious return. Rainy season was not Bond's ideal time to travel to Mexico. She did enjoy Oaxaca the few times work or pleasure took her to the southern city, the people and the food were some of the finest she'd ever encountered on her travels. While late-July was hardly the best weather, Guelaguetza was approaching and the airport was bustling. She had been in Oaxaca once, over ten years ago, and enjoyed the dancing and the costumes as Oaxaca's people celebrated their Zapotec and Mixtec origins.

Smoking lazily, she saw a person with an undercut not looking at her in that particular way that Bond knew meant they were looking at her. Bond studied them in that very same way, noting the long portion of their hair carefully gelled and combed backward and a white t-shirt with the sleeves rolled around a packet of Boots gave them a distinctly "Ponyboy" quality. They leaned against an empty kiosk that promoted day trips to Monte Albon, and in a split second Bond made and caught eye contact. The first step. They were short, under five feet. Bond thought to the dossier she memorized and destroyed that told her she would retrieve materials from her contact, a friend of MI6 who was an indigenous organizer, codename Tlax. MI6 had begun to support groundwork during the APPO protests of 2006. The unit, headed by M's new protoge V, was specifically focused on supporting upstarts against oppressive governments; regardless of their alliance with Queen and Country. It was an exciting prospect for MI6 in the new world, offering support to right the wrongs of colonialism.

Oaxaca had a large indigenous and indigenous descended population, so Bond didn't want to jump to conclusions and searched for a code beyond a knowing glance. Thinking back to the dossier she noted the movement quickly; Tlax's nimble fingers were absently turning a rubix cube. The code. They seemed to barely glance down, but within three turns the cube's colors found themselves in their rightful place. Then, without looking at Bond, they tossed the cube in the trash and walked away. Bond walked over and without drawing any attention, nimbly pulled the cube from the wastebasket.

"Shit," she muttered. Tlax had reset the puzzle before tossing it.

"I fucking hate these things," she said, frowning as she twisted the lines this way and that, trying to solve the code. After 10 minutes, Bond had to sit down on a bench, glaring at the cube as she tried moving the few reds around in a counter-rotation. It had at least three more levels than the rubix cube she had grown up on (and hated then, as she did now). After fifteen minutes she started to get mad. Why the fuck had the contact done this? She knew what she needed was inside. She heard a thunk sound in the distance; a fruit vendor dropped a machete down on a jicama. He was making Tejate for a line of American tourists looking on anxiously, watching as a gloopy paste was stirred smooth, becoming what looked like chocolate milk before their eyes. Bond stood up and walked to where the man carefully cracked the last jicama in a stack, handing it off to an assistant before dumping the tejate contents into the jicama and then pouring it dramatically into a clay bowl. The Americans laughed and cheered while taking videos on their iPhones. Bond reached over an nimbly grabbed the spare machete, careful to keep her back to the camera (being a spy in the age of iPhones was exhausting). She walked around the corner, and brought the knife down on the rubix cube, it cracked and she yanked it apart, finally finding the car keys inside. Pausing briefly to try and figure out the mechanism inside, she sighed and thinking again before tossing the two parts of the halved cube in the trash, she placed them in her bag as she walked toward the parking lot, clicking a button until she heard a telltale beep.

Bond smiled. Nestled between a Toyota Yaris and an ancient truck was an immaculate Aston Martin DB11. Shining silver, headlights blinking as Bond clicked it a few more times for good measure. She probably should have just wandered into the parking lot instead of chopping a rubik's cube in half. The whole block could have been the key and she didn't have to look like a damn fool chopping a children's toy in half. There was a 100% chance this ridiculous vehicle had a variety of missiles that should not be in an airport parking lot. After a quick scan for any tampering, she climbed in the front seat. The car was cool. It had just been parked. Tlax was good. There aren't many places a car like this could sit for long.

She pushed the button and heard the car purr to life before looking for the telltale signs of Q in every nook and cranny. Something felt wrong, the part of her that made her so well suited for the job sent the hair on her arm up, and she looked for the gun. Someone was near. After running her hands over the dash and below the seat she noticed a button on the center console that had a curious symbol on it. It was a circle, no, not a circle, a sphere, with a smaller circle on it. It looked like a blueberry. Bond looked at it before smiling and whispering, "Ah, I'm your huckleberry." She pushed the button and part of the console moved away revealing her trusty Walther PPK. The suppressor was already attached. Q knew of Bond's love for the stories of Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday and the mythology of the shootout in the OK Corral. She appreciated this special touch. She'd have to thank her when she returned, but before that, Bond swiftly yanked the gun from its compartment and using two hands pointed it at the figure that was now opening the passenger side door.

There stood Tlax, a new rubix cube in their hand as they hovered at the door.

"No dispares!" Then switching to English, and dropping the cube, completed, in the seat, "You gotta look around better sister."

"You gotta knock before you end up with a hold in your head, friend," Bond responded before picking up the cube to make room for her contact.

Tlax sat and took the cube back from where Bond handed it to them, disassembling and reassembling it without looking.

"Show off," muttered Bond.

"You didn't have to chop it in half. I was watching. A few more turns you woulda had it," They replied, grinning at Bond and holding out a hand in peace.

Bond shook it, "I hate that shit."

"Puzzles are my thing. Maybe they are my people's thing. We left all sorts of puzzles for you all as you brought us to our knees. Our little revenge, I think."

Bond turned and without batting an eye held the muzzle of the silencer to Tlax's head.

"Say it."

Tlax swallowed, "Erno Rubik."

"And," said Bond, not moving the gun.

"1980." Tlax said, this time not flinching.

"Thanks, and sorry. You know, spies, secret codes. The Brits love that shit."

"Yeah, sure," Tlax said, pulling another, tiny cube out of their pocket and turning it mindlessly. It was miniature but had at least 8 layers. It was completed in seconds.

"Navigate please," was all Bond responded. And Tlax began to tell her directions.

They pulled up to the small hotel near the Centro at 11 PM, a band played in the distance, and there was laughter coming from a large party, possibly a wedding party, at the restaurant below. Through the window, Bond watched as an old man with a drooping Porfirian moustache was giving a toast in Spanish, a man leaned over and kissed his new wife's head.

"You've got a good place for her then?" Bond asked Tlax as she got out and tossed them the FOB.

"Always," Tlax responded, "But why does this have to be a she?" and they patted the top of the Aston Martin fondly.

Bond pulled her bag from the car, "They aren't all she's, but this one? Yeah, this one is a lady."

"Name one that hasn't been a lady?" Tlax responded, rolling their eyes as they climbed into the driver seat.

Bond leaned through the passenger window,

"I drove a BMW Z3 once, in Cuba. We were on a mission but it was that lazy in between time when you think maybe this is just a vacation, and not a potential trip to your untimely death. That car didn't respect a binary. We flew through the jungle to the beach. That car was not woman or man, but rather something that pulled from all that energy. It didn't respect anything but the person driving it. It was nothing but relaxation and open-road. A calm before a storm. But this one?" Bond patted the hood as Tlax had, "Sorry, this right here is a lady."

"What happened to the car? The BMW?" Tlax asked as they put their hands on the wheel.

"Ugh. Don't remind me," Bond muttered, "I had to trade the damn thing for a plane."

"Do I want to know what happened to the plane?" Tlax asked, pulling a comb out of their pocket and running it through their hair like a "Grease" extra.

Bond sighed and turned, then leaned back over her shoulder, "RPG."

Tlax let out a hoot and, laughing, peeled out into the sticky night. Bond picked up her bag and made her way into the boutique hotel. It had clearly once been a building meant for something else, perhaps a garage or some other type of shop. A spacious lobby kept the shape and the big warehouse windows were accented by a shelf that ran all the way around the atrium to showcase a living garden, and Bond could see the trickle of water coming from the pipes keeping it lush. Below it were the open hallways and the rooms.

"Bless you, Q." Bond muttered as she went to the counter in the center of the room.

"Yes reservation for Mary Goodnight?" she said in her most prim English accent. Looking around and blinking earnestly, as she pictured an art dealer would do.

"Si, welcome Senorita Goodnight. Here is your key, you'll find your packages have already been deposited in your safe. The person who set your safe did not write down your passcode, they simply told me to tell you, "I'm your Huckleberry." The desk clerk looked at Bond hopefully, certainly praying the cryptic message would be received. Bond smiled. Oh Q.

"Muchas gracias," and took the key and strolled through the open atrium, up one flight and to her room facing the street out front.

Tapping 1887 into the safe, it popped open instantly.

"Doc Holliday," Bond said, with a small smile. Inside were more guns, a few tactical knives, a new watch, and a variety of trinkets that Bond would be sure to check in with Q on before touching for fear they would explode. She had a way of making things innocuous as a thimble a death-dealing device. Bond glanced warily at a pen, a letter opener, and what looked like a small woven basket. She didn't touch the basket, certain it would explode.

After noting the drawers had changes of clothing, she took a quick shower, ice cold, and then dressed in a bespoke grey linen suit; three buttons up the front, four on the sleeves. Perfectly tailored to her figure. Bond buttoned up her shirt to the second-to-last button, leaving the throat open and opting to leave a tie behind. Too damn hot. She strolled back down the stairs, and smiled warmly at the woman who had checked her in who was now changing her thoughts about the mysterious traveler who had an equally mysterious safe dropped off at her room. The clerk remembered it was an art dealer from Britain, and she admired the way she looked in the suit. 

"Can I recommend a place for a late dinner, Senorita?" She asked, hopeful she could steer her somewhere close where she could run into her when she ended her shift in a half hour. The art dealer exuded the sort of restrained sexuality that begged to be brought home. The clerk rarely tried to make it with guests, but she would certainly make an exception if this one showed any interest. 

"No thank you," Bond replied cordially, "I'm meeting a friend for a drink."

Disappointed the clerk nodded and watched Bond walk out the door. Dios mio. What a view. 


End file.
